Not a bang, yet not a whimper
by Gemenied
Summary: There's no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones. (Neil Gaiman) - an add-on to "Waterloo"


Title: Not a bang, yet not a whimper

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters or the setting, not even the challenge was my idea.

Summary: There's no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones. (Neil Gaiman) - an add-on to "Waterloo"

A/N: This is my response to a challenge CrazymaryT set me and its premise was: B/G meet for the first time after "Waterloo"'s ending - not sure that was what she had in mind, but here we go. Much love and hugs go to the OHT, especially Joodiff for the beta.

Enjoy.

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**Not a bang, yet not a whimper**

It's strangely anti-climactic, the way they meet again. Maybe it's because of the place where they do, or the hour of the day. But the lack of fanfare accompanying the moment is strangely perplexing.

It's very cold and grey and for a moment he isn't even sure it is her, but he's holding the door open regardless. Anybody mad enough to show up at this place at this time of the day should receive at least this much courtesy.

She looks like hell after what he assumes have been a few hours of tossing and turning without finding any rest. He knows it's how he looks too. She's taken care to cover up the traces with make-up and it's turning out to be a stellar job. After over nine years though, he doesn't need to count the lines around her eyes to know when she's exhausted and uneasy. He can read it without much trouble in her posture and in her gait.

"You're here early," she states quietly.

"So are you."

"Couldn't sleep," she says with a wry grin, acknowledging the redundancy of her words.

It's not even 7 yet; even the most eager young officers are still sipping their coffees at home. For such seasoned professionals to be here at this time of the day can mean only a very few things.

"Need some coffee then?" he asks.

"Would you laugh if I said I'd rather have tea?"

"Oh, spare me!" he groans, half for show and half in good-natured disbelief. There's little he doesn't know about her, so her preference is no surprise. Under different circumstances he'd make a spectacle of her hippie-tendencies, but the fun in putting her on the spot ceased weeks ago. He can still see her face devoid of colour as she lay unconscious in the very corridor they are now quietly walking along. It gives him a pang every time he walks through it, remembering how close a call it was.

Her hand on his arm comes as a surprise as it jolts him out of his thoughts. She gives him a smile, tired, but full of warmth. She knows what he's thinking, and that startles him even more. When did she start to know his thoughts so well? And when did he become able to reciprocate?

The offices are empty, as they should be at this time of the day, but they seem oddly untouched. The board is still filled with the information they've gathered. There are piles of files on the desks, answering machines blinking, the computers giving off a low hum. It all looks seemingly like they left it.

But it isn't. Life changing things have happened. One of theirs is dead. And he still has to prove that he didn't kill her. He doesn't even know if they'll allow him to defend himself, provide the evidence he has to prove his innocence. And there's still the dead body in an abandoned warehouse which he might have to claim a shared responsibility for.

It will have been found by now. Probably.

He doesn't know. Neither does she.

It's all so up in the air that the normality of this place, of the morning, is a shock to the system.

They gravitate towards her office. Naturally. Organically.

Her office has always been much more homely than his. It's the difference in their personalities.

He throws his coat over the chair, while she methodically hangs hers up and places her handbag. For a brief moment as he silently makes his way to the coffee maker and produces two mugs of coffee anyway, he contemplates if her bag is as heavy as it looks, and why she's so insistent on carrying that much. It seems impractical, which is one of the least things he associates with her. One of the many contradictions of this woman.

She leans against the frame of her office door when he picks up the mugs and turns towards her.

They don't speak as he makes his way back and hands her the mug.

They don't speak as they sip their respective coffees and she flinches a little at the bitterness of hers.

She looks at him calmly, the same gentle smile on her face as the one last night under the bridge. Again he feels the urge to touch her, to reassure them both that this isn't just a giant illusion, that there is something real and positive.

So he does. He reaches out to take her free hand and squeezes lightly. Her smile grows a little wider, the warmth increasing.

"Will you be alright?" she asks.

Anybody else asking such an inane question would receive his full wrath, but she isn't anybody else and from her it's so much more than a needless statement. The subtext between them is always proportionally bigger than the actual words they throw at each other.

He only shrugs in response, which says more than he could explain in a thousand words. It's not necessary either, because she reads his subtext just as well as he does hers.

"Did you call ahead for the Commissioner?" There's an edge in her voice, the only outward testament of how worried she really is.

"Nobody there at this time of the day."

It's still at least ninety minutes before anybody will be at the Commissioner's office and for the first time in his entire career of over thirty years, he'll be waiting there when the big man arrives. The time ticks down very slowly, towards his rehabilitation and freedom or his disgrace. It can go either way and he finds the wait almost unbearable.

If she wasn't here...

"He'll listen to you. Hell...with all the embarrassment everybody will want to listen to you," she claims with surprising fervour.

He doesn't share her optimism. People want to see him hang, he knows.

"I'm telling you. They will listen. You won't recognise what we know once it shows up in the papers, but you'll give them the means to get the force through it without too much blemish. The Commissioner will recognise it."

"And shift the entire blame onto Nicholson?" he concludes incredulously.

It's on her to shrug in response. "Wouldn't be the first time," she concludes wryly. "And we do have enough evidence to prove his motive."

He snorts, but it lacks certainty. He isn't convinced. He's less than two hours away from learning his fate. Two hours until he knows whether it's dignity or disgrace, and as much as he's told himself that he can deal with it either way, he finds that he couldn't really bear the destruction of his life and his reputation.

For a brief moment his mind toys with the idea that he won't live long enough to give the bloodhounds the satisfaction. There are options, his service Glock one of them. The coffee mug carefully pulled from his grasp brings him back.

Her hands are so much smaller than his. She is so much smaller than he is that she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye. It's something he has never registered like this. She's so small, so fragile compared to him and yet...

She squeezes his hands, forces him to focus on her, on her face, her eyes, her voice.

"It will be alright, Peter."

Peter. Not Boyd.

The feeling shoots through him like a hot wave and he gives in and pulls her against him, his arms holding her tightly against his body.

"It will be alright," she repeats, muffled against his shirt. He can feel the warmth of her breath through the material.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallows hard against the onslaught of tears a man of his standing shouldn't even think of crying. But the realization is too strong.

"Will you be here, Grace?" he asks and it must sound somewhat broken, for her arms tighten around his torso and she burrows deeper into his embrace.

"I'll be here."

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Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


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